


Into Darkness

by EllaStorm



Series: Oath [3]
Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: (I am still crying), Aragorn and Boromir just have a lot of feelings for each other, Boromir Lives, Emotions, Fate & Destiny, I am still hooking people up with each other, Multi, Oaths & Vows, Reunion Sex, Undying Love, Very Epic Declarations Of Everlasting Loyalty, also there is a bunch of reunion scenes that I needed for my own wellbeing, also there is an unexpectedly big amount of plot happening here, do not let yourself be deterred by this, i guess, slight alterations of Canon Events, which makes this a Fix-It of sorts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-16
Updated: 2018-04-19
Packaged: 2019-04-23 12:34:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14332566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllaStorm/pseuds/EllaStorm
Summary: Boromir returns to the White City to keep his oath: He must prevent the fate laid out for Aragorn by the mirror of Galadriel. As their final hour nears, King and Steward renew their bond of love and allegiance, but hope fades fast, and every step they take only brings them closer to the Black Gate and to what awaits them there.





	1. Pelgwaedh

**Author's Note:**

> This series is getting longer and longer, which is why this installment will have not one but three chapters. A fourth and last installment will follow as soon as this one is finished. So buckle on, kids, and enjoy the ride (and my happy butchering of the Elvish language) while it lasts.

The name of the horse he was given was _Avalór,_ which the Elves had told him meant “he who does not sleep” in the tongue of Men. It was a beautiful grey gelding, calm and undemanding, but quick and agile all the same; and Boromir only truly understood how much the horse did his name credit when he woke on his back to the first rays of the early morning sun painting the hills and valleys of Rohan green and golden brown. He had slept there, tied to the horse with an elven rope so he would not fall off, since the Elves had assured him that the gelding would find his way even without his rider’s guidance. Avalór had not rested in the night, for they had travelled at least thirty miles while Boromir had been sleeping, but the horse showed no sign of tiredness, not even a drop of sweat on his flanks, as they crossed the _Wold_ at a constant, fast pace.

Boromir had calculated about eight to ten days for the five hundred miles to Minas Tirith, but they had already made good on more than a hundred miles in one afternoon and one night. If he could keep up the pace, he could make it in half the estimated time. With the elven clothing he had been given, a green tunic and breeches, light leather armor, a pair of riding boots and an elegant sword, forged in a style similar to that of the daggers he remembered having seen on Legolas, he felt well-prepared for a fight. Lembas bread kept him strong, and since he could sleep on horseback, he used the little rests he allowed himself for fighting practice. In Lórien he had been told that fifteen days had passed between Amon Hen and his awakening in Caras Galadhon, where he had been washed ashore, thirteen days earlier, naked, without weapons and gravely wounded, but breathing.

Still somewhat unsettled by the events, Boromir spent much of his journey through Rohan thinking about the oath he had so willingly sworn to Aragorn, without any knowledge of the consequences; but there was no regret in him, for he had been granted another life to serve and protect his King and his homeland. Even if he was riding to his ruin, only one more witness to the last days of mankind, he had been given a second chance to fight for his people. And despite his discomfort at the thought of the ancient and frightening magic that had brought him back, he did not think it evil, for nothing that was evil would have granted him such a gracious gift as this.

He crossed Entwash and the border to Gondor on the third day of his ride; and when he opened his eyes on the fourth day, hastily freeing himself of the elven rope that held him, he saw the familiar plains of Anórien. Smoke was rising in the distance; and a sense of terror befell him. He urged Avalór to go faster, sent him flying over the fields towards their destination. Finally, Minas Tirith came into view, proudly enthroned on its mountain, but Boromir could see, even from far away, that destruction had befallen it: Towers had been taken down, and walls had been blackened by fire. Here and there the ruins of a building jutted up into the sky like a rotten tooth.

When he reached the peak of the hill that overlooked the Fields of Pelennor, his heart sank. Before him lay a battlefield, covered in blood, weapons and the bodies of orcs, horses, oliphants, trolls and men alike. Boromir had never seen anything of its like, and he hesitated for a few moments, before he spurred Avalór on again, manoeuvred him down the hill and across the field, towards the city. It couldn’t have been more than a day since the battle had taken place: The smell of blood and death was still fresh and overwhelming. Galadriel’s mirror had shown him how it had come to this, and he saw that Rohan must have hurried to Gondor’s aid, for there were many Rohirrim who had let their lives here. Boromir did not have it in him to take a closer look at the bodies he passed. The most pressing matter in his mind was to find the King; the grief for his fallen brethren would have to wait.

As far as he could see, Minas Tirith, for all the destruction it had suffered, had not been taken by the enemy; and when he rode towards the gates – breached by the brutality of a battering ram and not yet replaced – he saw the first two living men of his new life, dressed in the armour of Gondor, guarding the broken gates to the White City.

He slowed his horse down as he came closer and felt the scrutinising eyes of the guards on him, eyes that tried to pigeonhole his appearance as that of a foe or a friend of Gondor. Only when he had almost reached them did he recognize the one on the right beneath his helmet. He had brown eyes and his blond hair was peeking over the collar of his harness. A wave of relief and joy washed over Boromir at the unexpected sight of Nidhon, once Lieutenant of Osgiliath and in Boromir’s service.

The young man’s eyes widened when Boromir descended from his horse and Nidhon finally recognized him as well.

“My Lord…you…but you are dead.”

The other soldier had left his post, curious as to what was spoken. Boromir did not know him – he looked much younger than Nidhon, and it was possible that he had only stepped into service a few months ago.

“What is it, Captain?”

Boromir smiled “So you are Captain now, Nidhon. I cannot think of one more deserving.” Nidhon stared at him, but he continued, undeterred: “I have sworn an oath to Aragorn, Ararthorn’s son, King of Gondor, to serve and protect him and this city. Will you greet me as brother and allow me to enter?”

He took a step towards Nidhon, raising his hands in a pacifying gesture. Nidhon’s eyes grew even wider, his spear fell to the ground; and then Boromir was caught in an embrace that he returned without hesitation.

Nidhon’s words were quiet and fast against his ear. “You were lost, my Captain. Your brother, the Lord Faramir brought your horn into the city. It was cleaved in two; and we held vigil for your death, for we were sure of it, even though the Great Stream had claimed your body.” Boromir felt the Captain tremble in his arms and pulled him closer still. In Osgiliath Nidhon had served him with strength and loyalty. They had spent many of the good nights drinking and talking - and most of the bad ones sharing a bed. Boromir remembered all of it; and he was sure that Nidhon remembered, too.

“My body was claimed, yes, but it was returned. I woke in the forests of Lórien. The Elven Queen sent me back south with knowledge of days to come.” He let Nidhon go and looked him sternly in the eye. “I must see the King.”

Nidhon nodded and took off his helmet, passing it to the young soldier to his right. His face was still as youthful and handsome as Boromir remembered it, framed by pale locks of hair; but the expression in it was determined and tolerated no dissent with his orders. “Tarion, you will guard the gates and wait for my return.”

The other soldier nodded curtly, and Boromir saw no sign of fear in his eyes at the task that had been put in his hands, even though he had seen little more than eighteen winters. But maybe all of his fear had been used up on the day before, when Sauron’s army had wreaked havoc in his city. Boromir gave him a smile and Tarion looked back at him, a distinct curiosity in his eyes that did not go unnoticed by Nidhon.

“This is Boromir, first Son of Denethor, Captain and…” He gave Boromir a look that conveyed wariness and an odd touch of grief. “…Steward of Gondor.”

 

 

***

 

“So it is true,” Boromir said, throwing Nidhon a sidelong glance as they made their way through the streets of Minas Tirith, avoiding heaps of rubble in their path. For all the chaos left from the battle on the fields outside, it was obvious that the White City had already begun to clean itself of the dirt of war. The streets had been cleared of bodies, weapons and blood, and men and women alike had started to tackle some of the heaps Boromir and his companion came by, splitting big stones with chisels and hammers and separating them from burnt pieces of wood and twisted metal. Boromir was walking at a steady pace, leading Avalór by his side so he could speak to Nidhon on eye level, in confidence.

The captain nodded sadly. “It is. Your father is dead. He plunged from the seventh tier in the midst of battle, a living flame.”

Boromir swallowed. This was not news to him, for he had seen it come to pass in Galadriel’s mirror. “Do you know of the circumstances?”

Nidhon looked at his feet in sudden embarrassment, and Boromir stopped in his tracks to put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “You may speak freely.”

“I did not see it with my own eyes, my Lord. I know only what is being whispered among the guard. And I find it dishonourable to spread undignified rumours.”

“The sad thing about undignified rumours is the amount of truth they tend to hold,” Boromir retorted, gripping Nidhon’s shoulder more insistently. “Tell me what you have heard.”

They marched on, in silence at first, but after a while Nidhon spoke, carefully picking his words. “The Lord Steward was overcome by grief at the news of your death. After Osgiliath had been overrun he sent a garrison of men to retake it, at its head the Lord Faramir, your brother. It was a hopeless venture. Of all men, only your brother returned, close to death. Lord Denethor was immoderate in his mourning. It is said…it is said he commanded the soldiers to flee the city when it was under attack, before he ordered his household guards to light a pyre for him and Lord Faramir in the Chambers of the Ancestors, for he wished to burn like his forefathers. And so, he burned. That is what the rumours say.”

Boromir nodded and clenched his jaw: He knew his father had been struggling with his reign, and the attack on Osgiliath, coupled with the message of his son’s death, must have finally pushed him too far, must have turned his despair and helplessness into madness. Boromir realised that it did not entirely surprise him how his father’s life had ended. It saddened him, still, but here, too, grief would have to wait for more peaceful times.

“What of my brother?” he asked, remembering the rest of Nidhon’s story, remembering what he had seen in the mirror, and expected the worst. The Captain looked up at him, and Boromir was surprised to see the onset of a smile on his face. “Lord Faramir is weak, but alive. It is said…it is said he was pulled out of Lord Denethor's pyre by the wizard who protected the city during battle. Gandalf the White, they call him.”

“ _Gandalf_?” Boromir had stopped again, baffled by Nidhon’s words. “ _Gandalf_ , you say?”

“Yes. He is councillor to the King. Do you know him?”

“I knew Gandalf, when he was called the Grey. He fell at the Bridge of Khazad-Dûm, taken by a creature from the underworld. How can he be alive?”

“Maybe it is not so uncommon a thing in these times, returning from the dead,” Nidhon remarked, dryly; and Boromir laughed.

Despite all the sadness he felt for the sacrifices of his people and the fall of his father, there was joy in him: His brother was alive. And Gandalf, too.

He remembered something else the mirror of Galadriel had shown to him and turned to Nidhon once again, the remnants of his laughter still on his lips. “There doesn’t happen to be a halfling serving in the guard of Minas Tirith, does there?”

Nidhon looked at him in surprise. “But yes, there is! He arrived with the wizard and swore allegiance to your father. It is rumoured he killed more than one orc inside the city walls. How do you know?”

“Last I saw him he was thrown over the shoulder of an Uruk-hai.” The smile left Boromir’s lips when he thought of the day at Amon-Hen. “How he ended up here…he will have to tell me one day.” He shook his head, dispelling his dark thoughts, and smiled at his companion once again. “Never underestimate a halfling, Nidhon. They are the most resilient creatures I have ever encountered. Far more than men or even dwarves.”

“Speaking of dwarves,” Nidhon responded. “The King seems to travel in the most interesting of companies.”

That prompted Boromir to laugh out loud, and Nidhon chimed in after a short while as they took the steps that led to the seventh tier of Minas Tirith. In front of them lay the White Tree, the Tower, the Great Hall of Feasts and the House of the King. None of the usual guards were present, which reminded Boromir of the losses the city must have suffered, in men more than anything else.

Nidhon accompanied him to the door of the House of the King, and as he stood right before it, Boromir’s heart started beating faster.

“Shall I announce you, my Lord?”

“No.” Boromir passed the reigns of his horse to Nidhon. “See that the gelding is taken care of in the stables. He has served me untiringly, but even an elven steed needs rest after a four days’ ride.” Nidhon nodded and took Avalór from Boromir’s hands.

“Is there anything else I can do for you, Lord Boromir?”

Boromir shook his head and gave Nidhon another smile. “You have done too much for me already, my friend.” He put a hand on Nidhon’s shoulder and squeezed it, softly. “Go now, Captain of Gondor. We will see each other soon.”

“I am glad for your return, my Lord,” Nidhon gave back, a quick touch of fingers to Boromir’s arm, and then he turned and left, Avalór in tow.

 

 

***

 

Boromir breathed deeply, twice, before he climbed the steps to the great doors, put his hands to the cool, familiar bronze and pushed one of the heavy wings open. It creaked slightly, not too loud, but loud enough for all those present in the Great Hall of the King to take note of his arrival.

The first thing he heard was a gasp and a clatter, echoed in the wide-open space, as all heads turned to him.

Boromir looked at those before him one by one. They were five, and he recognized four of them as part of the Fellowship: Legolas, his hair bright as the driven snow, an expression of surprise in his elven eyes that Boromir had never seen there. Gimli, sitting in the Steward’s chair, a pipe on the floor beneath him that must have recently slipped from his fingers. Gandalf, yes, it was Gandalf _,_ clothed all in white, eyebrows raised almost to his hairline. And Aragorn, half-dressed as ranger and half as King, the signet of Gondor’s tree carved into the protection plates on his forearms, his mouth open to form a word he had meant to speak before Boromir had entered, but that had never left his lips. The fifth man was one of the Rohirrim, and Boromir faintly recognized him: It was Éomer, King Théoden’s nephew and second in command after Théodred, the King’s son. He looked less shocked than the other four, and Boromir assumed that the news of the Steward’s son’s demise had either not reached his ears, or that he did not remember Boromir’s face.

Legolas was the first to speak. “This cannot be. You were slain at Amon Hen. I saw you dead before me.”

Boromir opened his mouth to explain, or at least – try to explain, but Gandalf pre-empted him. “Yet it _is_ Boromir who stands here, no less alive than we are.” The wizard came closer until he stood right in front of Boromir. He surveyed him with a quizzical expression, before a small smile appeared on his lips. “You, too, have enjoyed the hospitality of the Lady Galadriel, I see. You must have arrived just after I had left.” A warm hand rested on his shoulder, and Gandalf turned to the others whose faces were still masks of shock, save for Éomer’s, that showed modest curiosity at best. Gandalf’s voice filled the whole hall when he spoke: “Boromir, Son of Denethor, has returned to the White City. And to King Aragorn, to whom he has sworn an oath of love and allegiance. Yes, love and allegiance, forged into a powerful bond by the ancient magic of Lórien, as it was given willingly and felt deeply. This bond remained untouched even by death. In his second life he is Boromir _Pelgwaedh_ , for he returned from beyond the veil to keep his oath to his King.”

There was a long moment of silence, in which Gandalf pushed Boromir forward with a soft, but insistent hand at his shoulder blade. His steps seemed too loud to his ears in the stillness of the Great Hall.

Finally, Legolas rushed forward and put his hands to Boromir’s shoulders, wonder and joy on his face. “Gandalf has seen what I could not. But I feel it now. The strength of Lórien has come with you, _Pelgwaedh._ It is a blessing to have you back with us in this final hour.” Boromir was pulled into a hug, then, Legolas’ lithe form against him, and as he returned the embrace, it was as if a spell had been broken and the room had started to breathe again.

He had barely let go of the elf when a strong, sturdy pair of arms wound tightly around his middle, and Gimli looked up at him from beneath bushy brows, wetness in his eyes. “You were missed,” he said, gruffly, and then his words seemed to leave him. Boromir did not know what to answer, but he put his hands on the dwarf’s shoulders, fondly, for he had always greatly enjoyed his company and, yes, he had missed him, too.

Gimli stepped back after a while, and Boromir was confronted with the sharp, green stare of Éomer, now less curious and more sceptical. “You are Denethor’s son?” he asked, bluntly, and Boromir nodded.

“As you are Éomund’s. I saw you once, many years ago, when King Théoden received my father in the Golden Hall of Edoras.”

Éomer’s expression turned bitter. “King Théoden is dead. As is Théodred, his son.” The words were cold and full of pain. “It is my duty to lead the Riders of Rohan into battle now.”

Boromir put a hand on Éomer’s shoulder for a short moment, but he knew that his condolences were understood by the small nod Éomer gave and a noticeable softening of his hard stare.

At last Boromir turned to the King. Aragorn held himself gracefully, but when Boromir stepped closer he saw trails of tears on his cheeks. A wave of emotion surged inside him, and he wished he could move in and kiss them from Aragorn’s face, but that was hardly possible under the watchful gaze of their company. So instead he only looked at him, in hopes that his expression might once again tell his King the things he could not say out loud; and then he kneeled, bowing his head.

The words came fluently over his lips, even though he had not practiced them; but as he spoke them, he knew that each and every one of them held true:

“The power that has granted me my return to the living is beyond my understanding. But what I do understand is the oath I gave to you. An oath I wish, with all my heart, to fulfil. My hands are strong once again, and they will serve you, as will my heart, if you desire it. For you are my brother, my captain and my king, and I will follow you. Into darkness and to the end of the world.”

For a while nothing happened, and Boromir’s heart sank, when he pondered that Aragorn might not want his allegiance any longer. He had made it here without Boromir’s sword by his side, had fought the forces of Sauron all by himself, and maybe-

His thought was cut short by a strong pair of hands at his shoulders, pulling him out of his kneeling position, up. Boromir looked into Aragorn’s face, overwhelmed, and there were more tears in the King’s eyes now, as he shook his head, his expression almost achingly soft. “You will not kneel before me, Son of Gondor.”

Aragorn embraced him, fiercely, and it might have been more intimate than was appropriate here, but the King did not seem to care. His soft hair brushed Boromir’s cheek, and Boromir buried his face at Aragorn’s neck and inhaled the familiar scent of leather and leaves he found there.

“You returned to me,” Aragorn’s voice whispered at his ear, a hand at the back of his head, and Boromir’s fingers sank into the worn leather of Aragorn’s coat.

For the first time in his second life, Boromir was home.


	2. The Sons of Denethor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I needed a Boromir & Faramir reunion scene like I needed air. For further reference please consider watching THAT ONE SCENE in the Extended Cut of "The Two Towers". I have hardly ever loved Boromir more than in that.

The Houses of Healing were overcrowded by wounded soldiers and healers too immersed in their tasks to pay Boromir any attention when he entered the wing reserved for the King and those closest to him. This part of the Houses of Healing consisted of only a few small rooms that allowed privacy and absence of noise. Boromir had no difficulty finding his brother in one of them; relief filled him, when he saw Faramir sitting upright in his bed, where his bandages were currently being changed. He looked pale and worn-out, but he was very much alive, and Boromir did not enter instantly, allowing the healer to finish his task. Faramir’s skin had been pierced by arrows in two spots on his right side, one close to his neck, the other under his arm; and he had been very lucky that no big arteries had been nicked. Had that been the case… Boromir remembered the numbness he had felt spreading through his body at Amon Hen and swallowed.

The healer finished up and Boromir stepped back from the door to let him pass, giving him a small, grateful nod on his way out.

Then he entered.

“Brother.” His voice was thick with emotion, and Faramir’s face conveyed even more surprise at his sight than the King’s had only hours before. The news of Boromir’s return must have spread less swiftly here in the sickbay than they had throughout the rest of the city; where a whole crowd of guards and civilians had received him, as soon has he had set foot outside the House of the King – a circumstance which had greatly embarrassed him, and greatly amused his companions, most of all Aragorn. _This is what happens to heroes returning from the dead_ , he had said, a warm, steadying hand on Boromir’s shoulder. _Go and speak to them._

“Is this a fever dream?” Faramir asked, and now there was fear in his eyes, too.

Boromir shook his head and slowly stretched out his hand towards Faramir. He could see the hesitation on his brother’s face before he took a heart and carefully put his fingers to Boromir’s palm. When skin touched skin the fear slowly disappeared from Faramir’s eyes and made place for more incredulity and hesitant joy. Boromir saw him trying to move and get up, which prompted him to put a stern hand on his brother’s shoulder.

“Rest. Your wounds are still fresh.” He sat down on the edge of the bed, smiling at Faramir and leaving his hand where it was on Faramir's shoulder to reassure his brother that he was not a figment of his imagination.

“How is this possible?” Faramir asked, awe colouring his voice. “Your horn was washed ashore in Ithilien, cut in two. I saw you in a vision, on a morning before sunrise, your lifeless body floating on a boat on the Anduin, passing me by. I knew it in my heart that you were dead.”

“Your heart did not deceive you, brother, for I was dead.” Boromir shoved the neckline of the fresh tunic he had been given aside, so Faramir could see the white, scarred entry point of the first arrow that had struck him on Amon Hen. “Shot three times by the fighting Uruk-hai who took the halflings I was meant to protect.” He pulled the fabric back, and Faramir nodded, shaken.

“I have heard the story, from one of these halflings. Peregrin of the Tower Guard has told it to me. He said he had never seen a man fight more bravely than you, or die more honourably. He is the one who saved me from…” There was pain on Faramir’s face at the memory, but Boromir decided to ask later about Osgiliath and their father – he still had an explanation to deliver.

“When we rested in Lothlórien I swore my allegiance to the King of Gondor, Aragorn, Arathorn’s son, who travelled with me from Rivendell and now returned to defend the White City in its hour of need.”  
“I have not seen him, but I have heard of his deeds. The healers speak of him. They say he led an army of ghosts against Sauron’s forces, that he turned the battle in our favour. That he wields the Sword of Elendil.”

“All of this is true.”

Faramir’s eyes searched Boromir’s. “Then there might still be hope for us, brother. You swore him allegiance?”  
Boromir nodded. “I swore it with my body and my soul, in the ancient forests of Lórien. How all of this came to pass is beyond my understanding, but the oath I have given brought me back. I woke in Lothlórien, and returned, to serve Gondor and the King.”

Faramir said nothing for a few moments. Then a small smile spread on his lips. “You must love the King greatly to give him your loyalty even beyond death.”

“I love him with all my heart,” Boromir said. “And I will follow him into battle come morning.”

Faramir’s features spelled incomprehension. “The battle is over.”

“This battle. But the war is not won. We must march on Sauron one last time. To the Black Gate.” That was what had been discussed in the Hall of the King before Boromir’s arrival, as he had learned later: Frodo had made it into Mordor, against all odds, and now he needed an opportunity to cross the last miles between him and Mount Doom. Aragorn would lead them into a battle against Mordor’s armies, that vastly outnumbered them, staging a diversion manoeuvre with no chance of success and only death as certainty, if Frodo did not destroy the Ring in time. And what was even worse was Boromir’s own knowledge of the things he had seen in the Mirror: Aragorn would die at the Black Gate, if Boromir could not prevent it. Apart from Galadriel he had not told a living soul about this, least of all Aragorn himself, as he was scared that he might set something in motion by speaking of it.

“The Black Gate?” Faramir’s voice was filled with horror “That is madness!”

Boromir shook his head. “It might be madness, but it is the only chance we have.” He whispered the next sentences, so no other ears than Faramir’s might hear them. “The One Ring is in Mordor now, in the hands of one of the halflings, who set out to destroy it in the fires of Mount Doom. We must give him a chance to get past Barad-dûr. We must trust him to fulfil his task. Only he can save us now.”

Faramir did not look as surprised as Boromir had thought he would at these words. Instead, there was something like guilt in his eyes. “I met him in Ithilien, captured him and his companions, and took them to Osgiliath. I wanted to…I wanted to give the Ring to our father, like he had asked. I knew you were dead, Boromir. I wanted to accomplish-“ He broke off. “But I let them go, for my heart told me that I would regret taking the Ring to Minas Tirith. It is not capable of good things, Boromir. It twists the minds and hearts of men. Our father was wrong: It cannot be used for us. Only against us.”

Boromir put a gentle hand to the side of Faramir’s face. “You did the right thing, brother. You were stronger than I was.” His hand slipped away and he looked down to the floor. It still hurt and shamed him to speak of his failure. “The Ring tempted me at Amon Hen, and I fell to it. I tried to take it from Frodo, whom I was sworn to protect.”

Faramir’s hand found his, like it often had when they had still been boys, and Faramir had looked for consolation after their father had railed against him. Only this time Faramir was the one giving solace, and Boromir the one receiving it.

“There was no hatred inside you for the Ring to twist, so instead it took your love and turned it against you, brother. Love for our father and the people of Gondor.” Sadness coloured Faramir’s voice, and Boromir squeezed his brother’s fingers, grateful for the gentle words, before he looked up again.

“What happened in Osgiliath? What happened to our father?”

And Faramir told him of his retreat after the city had been overrun by orcs, told him of Denethor’s cold disappointment, of the hopeless attempt of retaking Osgiliath. That was the part of the story that brought tears to Boromir’s eyes, for he could imagine it well, could imagine his father’s disregard and Faramir’s unbroken loyalty, even in the eye of rejection and suicide. The rest of Faramir’s memories were blurry, but he recalled a pyre that he was being dragged off and the silhouette of his father in the distance, all ablaze, running towards his death.

“I know, he hated me. For being there while you were gone. He wished our places had been exchanged. That you had lived and I was dead. He told me so.”

Boromir pulled his brother in, against his chest, carefully avoiding the bandages on his side. Faramir returned the embrace with all the force he could muster. “I wish I could have been there and talked sense into him. He loved you, Faramir, though he could not always see it,” Boromir murmured against Faramir’s ear.

“I do not know, if he did. But even in his coldest moments, I was never unloved. For I knew you loved me in abundance, brother.” Faramir’s voice broke on the last word; and Boromir loosened the embrace in order to look at him. There were tears in both their eyes, and the same wistful expressions on their faces, speaking of pain and happiness felt at the same time to the same extent.

“Let it be told that in this second life, however long it lasts, I shall continue to do so,” Boromir said, roughly, and their next embrace lasted for a very long time.


	3. Faith

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I say three chapters??? I meant four. Ahem. (And yes, I do see the irony of a LotR-FF having more parts than originally intended by the author...)
> 
> Also, the last bit of this relies heavily on a scene that was cut from the theatrical version of Return of the King, so if you haven't seen That One Scene With Aragorn And The Palantír, it might help to watch it in order to understand the circumstances a bit better (plus it's really awesome, so it's definitely worth checking out on Youtube).
> 
> Otherwise, there are a few references here to Part 1 of this Series as well, so that might be worth checking out, too ;)

He had spent his afternoon with Faramir, dwelling on memories of their past; and their farewell had been bittersweet, for Boromir did not know if he would return. Saying goodbye to his brother had reminded him of the last time he had done so, from horseback, a long look shared between them, before he had turned and ridden towards Rivendell and the end of his first life. Faramir had revealed to him that his heart had told him, back then, that they would not see each other again.

 _And what is your heart telling you now,_ Boromir had asked him, just before he had left.

 _I wish I knew,_ had been Faramir’s answer.

Boromir sighed deeply as he climbed the steps to the highest tier of the city, immersed in his thoughts – so immersed, in fact, that he did not see the small figure running towards him, before it impacted into his body, almost throwing him off his feet. He managed to regain his balance with a huff that quickly turned into laughter when he recognised the halfling before him as Pippin, dressed in the uniform of the Tower Guard; and Boromir fondly returned the hug as soon as he was sure that he wouldn’t fall and take the hobbit down with him.

“You are alive,” Pippin said, full of awe, letting go, and Boromir went to his knees to be on eye level with him, one hand still on his shoulder, squeezing it, a helpless smile on his face. “Peregrin of the Tower Guard. My brother told me of your bravery.”

Pippin shook his head, his expression suddenly serious. “My bravery pales in comparison to yours. You defended Merry and me to your last breath. I will never forget it.”

There lay unexpected gravity in his words, and Boromir answered earnestly. “I would do it again in a heartbeat.” He looked the halfling up and down and his smile returned. “I haven’t eaten all day. Will you do me the compliment of accompanying me for dinner and tell me how _exactly_ you came from being thrown over the shoulder of an Uruk at Amon Hen to fighting as Tower Guard for the White City in merely two weeks?”

“He’s certainly not going to tell _that_ story all by himself!” another clear voice shouted across the courtyard. Boromir looked to where it had come from and saw Merry run towards them with quick feet, dressed in the traditional uniform of the Rohirrim. The hobbit hardly slowed down when he closed in on them, but this time Boromir was prepared for the impetuous hug he received. He ruffled Merry’s hair, more laughter bubbling out of his throat, and an honest, deeply-felt happiness took hold of him, pushing the dark thoughts of the next day into the back of his mind.

“I would not dream of leaving you behind, Master Meriadoc, for you, too, are part of this tale. We shall go to a place where we can eat, drink, sit and talk.” He grinned at the two hobbits. “One of the merits of having grown up here is knowing where to find food and beer in a very short amount of time.”

 

 

***

 

They sat down with beer and stew in the quarters of the Tower Guards, where the soldiers respectfully made place for them; and Merry and Pippin talked about their travels in great detail, from being carried through half of Rohan by the Uruk-hai, to the attack of the Rohirrim on the camp at Fangorn Forest, to meeting Treebeard and the Ents, to the capture of Isengard, to Pippin’s foolish use of the Palantír in Edoras – which was where their tales took different paths. Merry spoke of his adventures with the Rohirrim, culminating in the Battle of the Pelennor Fields, where the Lady Éowyn, sister of Éomer and shieldmaiden of Rohan, had slain the Witch King of Angmar right before his eyes. Merry told this part of his story in a reverent tone of voice that spoke of great love and respect for Éowyn, and Boromir tried to imagine what this shieldmaiden might have looked like, sinking her blade into the King of the Nazgûl with courage and determination.

“I do not recall meeting the Lady Éowyn back in the day in Edoras, but I have met her brother, Éomer, twice now,” Boromir remarked thoughtfully. “From what you say, she seems to be just as fine a warrior as him.”

“Yet Milady is not only a warrior,” Merry gave back, his eyes shining. “She is a healer, too. She is tending to the wounded Rohirrim in the Houses of Healing at this very moment.”

Boromir smiled at him. “My brother might have met her, then, for he is currently recovering there.”

“You have seen Faramir this afternoon, haven’t you?” Pippin said, and the tone of his voice was urgent in its worry. “How is he?”

Boromir answered; and after having been assured of Faramir’s wellbeing, Pippin continued to tell his side of the story: His pledge of loyalty to Denethor in honours of the fallen Boromir, which, in turn, sent wetness creeping into Boromir’s eyes. The failed attempt at retaking Osgiliath. Lighting the beacon on top of the Tower. The attack on Minas Tirith. And, with sadness and reluctance in his voice, Pippin also spoke of the madness of Denethor and the pyre he had burned on.

Boromir put a reassuring hand on Pippin’s arm. “My brother has told me of this earlier. And I have heard it similarly from one of the guards. You have proven great strength, Pippin. Without you, my brother would not be alive. And the White City would have perished.”

Pippin looked down, embarrassed by the praise that had fallen so unexpectedly on him; whereupon Merry demanded that Boromir speak of _his_ travels now, that appeared – compared to Merry’s and Pippin’s adventures – less than spectacular to him.

When he was done speaking, the sun outside had long set; and Boromir got up with a start at the realisation of how much time had passed. “I am sorry to leave you in such a hurry, but there are still matters I need to discuss with Aragorn, and they cannot wait until morning. I will bid you goodbye before we leave tomorrow.”

Merry frowned. “Goodbye? No. We come with you. We fight.”

Boromir meant to object, but he swallowed his words when he saw the look in the hobbits’ eyes, reminding him of the fact that they had both been in battles, had seen destruction and death. It was nobody’s place to discourage them from fighting for the world they lived in. And, remembering their stories, he realised that every step they had taken, every small impact they had made, had changed the fate of men for the better.

Boromir smiled at them. “No goodbyes then. Until tomorrow, my friends.”

 

 

***

 

Boromir’s feet carried him to the House of the King at a slower pace than his hurried departure from the hobbits might have suggested. In truth there were no specific matters he needed to speak about with Aragorn – the battle plan was short, purported no prospect of victory, and had been discussed right after Boromir’s arrival in all its non-existent details. Yet there were innumerable things he needed to tell the King, things that had nothing to do with the battle, and were pressing to Boromir simply for the fact that he might not have a lot of time left to say them, for it was uncertain whether they would see the evening of the next day.

Reaching the leafless Tree of the King, he stopped and breathed in the night air, tasting it. From far away he could still sense an odour of burned wood and charred flesh, but it was covered by the sweet smell of spring awakening in the city. The air was dry and warm for this time of year, and the stars gleamed brightly in the sky. If this was the last night for mankind, it was a good one.

Boromir walked up the stairs to the big bronze doors and pushed the wing open through which he had already entered once today. It gave the same small creak, heralding his arrival to anyone who might be here. Inside the hall, candles had been lit on their bearers, immersing the floor level, the white throne and the Steward’s chair in their warm light but leaving the high ceiling to darkness. Boromir had barely taken two steps into the hall when a dark, glassy object at his feet attracted his attention. He bowed down to examine it – but recoiled immediately when he identified the black crystal ball as the Palantír Pippin had talked about earlier. Gandalf had taken it to Minas Tirith, Boromir recalled, and here it was now, right at his feet. He knew better than to touch it, choosing to carefully step over it, and looked back up into the room, confused as to how the Seeing Stone had gotten here, lying unguarded next to the entrance. He did not have to look for long, for he spotted Aragorn, sitting at the foot of the stairs leading up to the throne, his face buried in his hands.

Boromir rushed towards him. On his way he spotted Aragorn’s sword, Andúril, at his feet, and next to it the shattered, lightless pieces of the necklace Lady Arwen Undómiel had given to him. Boromir had no words to say, for he did not understand what exactly had happened here; so he sat down silently, put his hand to his King’s shoulder and let it rest there. It took a while, before Aragorn spoke, and when he did his voice sounded brittle.

“I looked into the Palantír. I tempted Sauron, threatened him. If he believes us to be attacking foolishly, secure in our superior strength, he is more likely to take our bait and remain oblivious to what is happening behind his back.”

“A good plan,” Boromir said, searching Aragorn’s face that was only partly turned to him, painted in light and shadows flickering over his skin. “But…” he continued, a question in the word; and Aragorn sighed.

“The Palantír looks both ways, and the enemy…” He gazed over to the entrance where the stone lay, swallowing light, a pained expression on his face. “…the enemy showed me-“ He did not finish the sentence, and Boromir noticed that breathing seemed to trouble him. Slowly but surely, he started to understand what had happened.

“He showed you the Lady Arwen.” Boromir did not need to see the King’s expression to know he was right.

“She is dying,” Aragorn said, quietly. “Her life is draining from her, like her father told me it would. The light of the Evenstar is fading.” His eyes moved to where the floor was covered in smoke-coloured glass splinters. “And it is my fault, for without me she would long be safe and sound in the Undying Lands.”

For a moment Boromir did, once more, not know what to say – and then the words of his brother came to him, words that had been wiser than Faramir might have recognized.

“There is no hatred inside you he can use. So he uses your love. He robs you of all hope, picks at your weakest spots, where it hurts most. I know this, because I have felt it. He and the Ring are two sides of the same coin – one makes you suffer, and the other promises an end to suffering, but instead only makes you suffer more. Both Sauron and the Ring have a penchant for finding the places inside you that are most vulnerable, most susceptible to an attack. He saw your love for Arwen Undómiel and showed you your greatest fear coming to pass. And now you feel guilt, remorse, pain, weakness seeping into your every bone.” Boromir paused. His fingers were clutching at the fabric of Aragorn’s coat, as he relived all these emotions himself, Frodo’s fear-riddled expression crystal clear before his eyes as his fingers stretched for the Ring around the hobbit’s neck…

“But you are strong, Aragorn. You have overcome him before. You will, again. Isildur’s Bane has not entrapped you, for all its attempts. Do not lose hope in this final hour.”

Aragorn shook his head, still looking at the shards on the floor. “Wasn’t it you who told me once that _hope you have to place among the stars_? So tell me, Boromir: If the stars themselves fall and shatter, where do you place your hope then?”

Boromir remembered the night he had said these words, remembered the forests of Lórien and the doubt in Aragorn’s eyes; and then he remembered what he had said afterwards, what had really been the first words of his oath.

He took Aragorn’s hand with determination and placed it over his heart.

“Then let hope be forsaken. But faith must not be. Faith you do not place among the stars. You place it in another man. If you cannot have hope, Aragorn, have faith.” _Have faith in me._

The expression on Aragorn’s face changed, slowly. The desolation and despair left his eyes, piece by piece, giving them back their bright blue colour, and the creases on his forehead smoothened. His hand remained on Boromir’s chest, warm through his tunic, and there was a touch at Boromir’s temple, a calloused thumb caressing the side of his face.

“I do have faith _,_ ” Aragorn murmured. “For faith is what brought you back to me.”

The King bowed forward and kissed Boromir, steadfast and passionate; and Boromir’s hand was trembling just the slightest bit when he placed it on top of Aragorn’s on his chest and kissed him back with everything he had. When the kiss ended, they sat forehead to forehead at the foot of the throne, their fingers entangled, their lips still connected by the warm breaths streaming from their mouths; and next to the love and reverence in his heart Boromir felt desire, too, licking at his skin like flames. He could tell that Aragorn was faring no better, his hand fisted in Boromir’s tunic, as he tried to calm his breathing and failed.

“In Lothlórien you promised me you would not lie with me out of duty,” the King said, and Boromir could feel the strain in Aragorn’s neck, where his hand was currently residing, just above the hem of his tunic. “I will hold you to that promise. The oath you have sworn does not oblige you to-“

Boromir’s thumb touched Aragorn’s lips, interrupting his speech. “I swore my allegiance to you with my words and with my body, out of no other reason than that I wanted to. I do not believe I would have been bound to you so strongly, had it not been my true heart’s desire, free from any obligation. My love for you does not arise from my duty to my King, for it was love that came first, and duty second.” He let his finger drift over Aragorn’s bottom lip. “I desire you, still, like I desired you in Lórien.” It came out in a whisper, and the last word got swallowed between them, because Aragorn kissed him again, heatedly, pulling him in and clutching at his tunic; and Boromir answered almost desperately,realizing that he had forgotten how much he had wanted this.

Yet- “This is not…the appropriate place, I believe,” he managed when they let go of each other for a short moment, even though part of him did not exactly care much at this point. “Your rooms are not far.” Boromir swallowed when he remembered that he was still speaking to the King. “Should you desire to share your bed with me tonight.”

Aragorn’s gaze was just as soft as his touch at Boromir’s cheek. “Hardly have I desired something more.”

He lingered for a moment or two, before he got up and held his hand out to Boromir, who gripped it, tight. “Come, Boromir. Let us make these final hours our own.”


	4. To The Last Breath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright. This - I don't know what to tell you, it got a little out of hand. I hope the amount of sappiness is still palatable (and I also REALLY hope Tolkien's ghost won't come to my flat and haunt my ass after this, because - yeah, let's just say I updated the rating for a reason), but it is The Night Before The End Of All Mankind. So, a little sappiness might just be...reasonable.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy this last chapter of Part 3 and prepare for Pain and Feelings in installment No. 4, coming out soon (there's a joke in there somewhere, I just know it...)

Merely three hallways and two floors separated the King’s private chambers from the Great Hall, and memories flooded back into Boromir’s mind when he followed Aragorn upstairs. He had often played hide and seek with Faramir in these halls when they had been younger; and though they had been strictly forbidden from entering the rooms of the King, that had hardly stopped them. In retrospect Boromir assumed that his father should have known that setting bounds to the curiosity of two ten-year-old boys roaming the halls of an old castle had been doomed to failure from the start; or maybe he had – and had quietly accepted their explorations as long as they did not get themselves caught. Boromir remembered standing in the vacant rooms of the old King, filled with furniture that had been covered in white linen after Arathorn’s death, curiously lifting the blankets and peeking under them to reveal delicate inlays and expensive fabrics lying in deep slumber, waiting for the next King of Gondor to claim them. The rooms had never been dusty when they had come here, and Boromir and Faramir had found out why one day, when they had almost been caught by a group of cleaning maidens.

He smiled at the memory; and, entering the rooms again after many years, he stood and marvelled for a few moments, for he saw them in all their glory for the first time in his life. Somehow, during all the chaos and destruction, somebody had found time to rearrange the King’s chambers, removing all the white linen, polishing the surfaces, making the bed, lighting a fire in the fireplace and placing flowers and refreshments on the tables. Above all else the headboard of the bed amazed Boromir, masterfully carved from walnut and decorated with Mithril inlays in the shape of the Tree of Gondor.

“I’ve been in these chambers as a boy. But I’ve never really seen them,” he explained himself to Aragorn’s questioning look. “The whole furniture here was covered. The rooms were waiting, like everything else. For the return of the King.” He smiled, somewhat wistfully. “Now he is here.”

With these words Boromir closed the door behind him and moved over to where Aragorn was standing. His gaze was fixed to Boromir’s face, blue as the midday sky. “He might not be here for long,” the King said, a streak of sadness in his voice, and, coming to stand before him, Boromir instinctually stretched out his arm and touched the side of his face.

“Let us not speak of tomorrow.”

Aragorn closed his eyes and his hand came up to rest on Boromir’s, lightly stroking the back of it. “I will hold my peace,” he said, the words quiet and raw in his throat, and then he opened his eyes again to look at Boromir, softly lifting their joint hands from his cheek and pressing his lips to Boromir’s knuckles for a long moment. Boromir shuddered slightly at Aragorn’s warm breath grazing the fight-hardened skin; and when the King looked up again, the desire in his expression was almost palpable in the air between them.

A moment passed, in which they both did not move, and Boromir felt his heart beat wildly in his throat while the heat between them flared up higher and higher, until he could not take it any longer, moved in and decisively captured Aragorn’s mouth with his own. This time there was no hesitancy between them as there had been in the throne room earlier, for this _was_ the appropriate place, and without interruption their kiss deepened, and hands started wandering, finding laces, belt fastenings and buttons on their way, moving and fiddling until fabric came loose and skin was unveiled.

Aragorn halted after Boromir’s tunic had fallen off, and – though confused for a moment – Boromir understood why, when gentle fingers touched the place beneath his clavicle where the Uruk’s first arrow had struck on Amon Hen.

“No more than a scar,” Aragorn murmured.

Boromir followed the trail of his fingers with his eyes as they drifted lower to the second point of impact, near Boromir’s breastbone, and then to the third one in the vicinity of his tenth rib.

“Still…” Aragorn’s voice sounded heavy, and Boromir looked up at his face, where he found his eyes filled with the remnants of pain and grief. He softly took the King’s hand away from the scars and placed it over his beating heart.

“It is no more than a memory now,” he said. “A painful one, yes. But only a memory. I am alive.”

“You are,” Aragorn retorted, as if he had only truly realised it in this moment; and then his mouth was back on Boromir’s. The kiss spread like wildfire through Boromir’s body, heightening the arousal that was already there to an almost painful extent. Argorn’s hands were roaming his back, moving downwards over muscles and bones, discarding the last piece of fabric between them on their way, while Boromir’s fingers buried in his hair. The King gave a small groan, and in the next moment, Boromir was pushed back, his knees hitting the edge of the bed, forcing him down to sit on the mattress, a surprised sound in the back of his throat. Aragorn knelt in between his legs, his hands gripping Boromir’s thighs, pushing them farther apart, his palms moving up with one strong slide of callouses over skin, until they rested on Boromir’s hips, holding on.

Boromir thought, for a moment, that he might be dying once again, when Aragorn’s mouth enveloped him in heat and wetness. But instead of feeling numb, all his skin, muscles and bones were aflame, his heart struggling to beat out of the confines of his ribcage – and this was a form of death he would gladly suffer.

“ _Eru Ilúvatar_ *,” he cursed, reverently reaching out with one hand to touch the King’s hair, while the fingers of the other clutched helplessly at the bedsheets. Aragorn did something with his tongue that made stars burst in front of Boromir’s eyes, and the hand he had carefully placed on the King’s head jerked, fingers twitching to grip and pull, but Boromir held them in place with the sheer force of his will; and Aragorn’s mouth left him for a moment. The King’s eyes shone brightly, startling blue, though now there was more black in them than usual, a dark circle drawing outwards from the inside. His hand came up to touch Boromir’s, pushing his fingers deep into the dark strands of hair.

“Touch me like you want to, Boromir.” The King’s voice sounded used and rough. “Not like you think you should.”

“I do not wish to hurt you,” Boromir gave back, the words thick in his throat, his eyes searching Aragorn’s face for a sign of discomfort.

“You’re not going to,” Aragorn retorted; and his eyes fell shut for a moment, when Boromir buried his fingers in silky black, gripping with soft insistence. When they opened again the blue was almost gone, merely a thin ring of it left around the blackness; and the look inside them sent a hot shiver through Boromir's veins. Then, Aragorn’s mouth descended on him once more, and Boromir clung on for dear life, pleasure threatening to burst through the boundaries of his skin. He was nearing his peak at a steady pace, and he knew Aragorn would take him there with his mouth, if he let him, but there was something else his body was aching for. He touched the hand currently not buried in soft strands of hair to Aragorn’s cheek, and it was only a small contact of skin on skin, but Aragorn understood, pulling off and away; the mild surprise in his eyes streaked with barely-hidden hunger.

“Take me. Please.” Boromir’s voice was ruined and the words came too harsh over his lips, too fast. The look in Aragorn’s eyes turned almost impossibly gentle at his words, but hardly lost any of its intensity, sending a shot of heat to Boromir’s stomach, when the King rose from his kneeling position and stood up in between Boromir’s legs, heat radiating from his body. Their hands touched, their fingers laced for a moment, and Boromir marvelled at Aragorn’s tall figure in the firelight, that painted his skin a warm orange, almost golden. He was built like a warrior, yet his body, not quite as broad-shouldered and heavy-muscled as Boromir's, possessed a noble elegance. Not the otherworldly grace of the Elves - something more fierce and human; and unlike anything Boromir had ever seen before. Aragorn let his fingers drift along the side of Boromir’s face and lifted his chin, bringing their mouths very close together. “Is that your wish?” he asked, his breath hot on Boromir’s lips.

Boromir put one insistent hand at the nape of his neck, returning his gaze. “I have wished for it ever since Lórien," he said, firmly. "I want to be yours again. I want to feel…” He did not finish the sentence, but there was no need to. Aragorn’s mouth found his in another kiss that spoke of a want just as great as Boromir’s; and then his warmth left as he receded and went to look for auxiliaries.

The Steward did not open his eyes, tasting the remnants of the kiss that were still lingering on his lips; and only looked again when Aragorn returned to him, resting a hand on Boromir’s shoulder. He saw a smile on Aragorn’s face and a little vial in his hand that was put down on the pillow to be picked up later; and Boromir remembered when he had last seen it: In Lothlórien where they had lain together beside the river and Aragorn had pulled it from somewhere in the heap of clothes they had left on the ground, just after Boromir had asked the same of him he was asking now. When Aragorn had opened it, a strong but pleasant scent of herbs had risen to Boromir’s nose; and Aragorn had started to talk about the qualities of the oil inside it as a healing ointment, before Boromir had interrupted him with a fervent kiss that had brought them back to what they had been meaning to do.

Aragorn’s fingers caressed his cheek, taking him back to the here and now. “Where are you dwelling?” he asked, a smile on his lips.

“In the forests of Lórien, the night I last saw this vial.” Boromir’s voice turned softer, but more serious all the same. “The night I swore my oath to you.” With a sudden yearning, Boromir pushed himself up, and his mouth collided with Aragorn’s again.

For a while after that it all became a pleasure-laden blur, landing on the bed, Aragorn above him, kissing, their hands wandering, a pillow placed beneath his hips and the herbal scent of the ointment filling the air, as Aragorn’s fingers entered his body on a sweet, torturous slide that inspired Boromir to use the name of the Great Creator in vain once more. And, finally, after having to reassure the King twice that his preparation more than sufficed, Aragorn removed his fingers and readied himself. Boromir kept his eyes on the King’s face as he pushed inside him, and the small moment of discomfort at the stretch completely eluded him at the view of Aragorn’s face, whose eyes fell shut only for a second, before they focused on Boromir’s again, filled with lust and pleasure and softness that Boromir drank in, revelling in the fact that he was allowed to have this, to see Aragorn like this. Seated as deeply as he would go, Aragorn stilled and let his fingers drift over Boromir’s forehead. “ _Pelgwaedh_ ,” he whispered; and Boromir, overcome with emotion, stretched his own hand out to stroke Aragorn’s face. The King leaned into the touch, then pressed a kiss to Boromir’s palm, and Boromir’s breath left him in a shuddering exhale.

“Take me,” he demanded. “Like you want to, not like you feel you should.”

A groan left Aragorn’s lips, and his mouth crashed into Boromir’s once again, as he started to move. It was not a gentle kiss and Boromir returned it in kind, bringing all the desperation into it that he had felt since Amon Hen. There were no more words lost between them while they loved each other, yet every thrust of Aragorn’s hips and every answering surge of Boromir’s body spoke a language all of its own. Their hands found each other, interlacing, and their breaths mingled as their pleasures reached their peak; and when Boromir lost himself in Aragorn, he knew Aragorn was lost in him, too, that they were joined, they were one, for a long, unfathomable moment.

Returning to their own, separate bodies, they lay, tangled up in each other, Aragorn’s head at the juncture of Boromir’s neck and shoulder, Boromir’s arms around him, keeping him as close as his sated body allowed.

There was a long stretch of warm silence between them, before either of them spoke.

“If tomorrow we ride into darkness and ruin for all men,” Boromir murmured, in the end. “There is no sadness inside me. For I will ride with my King, whom I love.”

Aragorn’s head came up, the blue in his eyes bright and brilliant as he looked down on Boromir; his hand adrift on Boromir’s chest. “When we ride,” he said in a steady voice. “I promise, to my last breath, I will not forsake the love we share. Darkness cannot enter here.” The King bowed, pressing a soft, long kiss to Boromir’s lips like a promise; and Boromir let his hands move to Aragorn’s face, cradling it in his palms.

“We are bound. Your last breath shall be mine as well,” he said, quietly; and Aragorn took the words from his lips with another deep kiss.

They did not speak another word of the next day after that; but they loved each other once again, before dawn broke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Eru Ilúvatar = the Divine Creator of Middle Earth (Tolkien didn't write an awful lot about religion in LotR - but this is, supposedly, the name you would use in vain in a situation like this. Go, Boromir.)


End file.
